Playing At Love: A Rogue Series Novel

by Lara Ward Cosio

  It was only after they had been set up with three more whiskeys—and told in detail what they would “be wanting to taste” in them—and a pint of Samuel Smith bitter each, that they were given a measure of privacy.

  “What you’ll be tasting here,” Conor told Felicity quietly, holding up the Jameson “is pure fucking gold.”

  She laughed and then shushed him. The barkeep had shuffled off to the opposite end of the counter. He was speaking with an older man who looked like a permanent fixture but Felicity couldn’t be sure what he could hear.

  “At least it’ll cost me a brick of gold.” It was the most expensive Irish whiskey in the bar.

  “Remember what he said, a man such as yourself can clearly afford it.”

  He looked back through the windows to the street. “Probably saw the car as we drove by.”

  “You don’t think maybe he recognizes you?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. Yeah, now that I think about it, I’ve seen him first row, right at the barrier at our shows. How could I have forgotten a face like that?”

  She smiled. “Maybe because the face barely made it above the barrier rail? All you could see of the wee man was the puff of white hair?”

  He laughed, and his smile lingered as he took in Felicity’s uncomplicated beauty. Her pale skin and light freckles were her best feature, but tonight she had played up her blue eyes to great effect with mascara and liner. Her style was chic without fuss. She wore a long black skirt with a wide brown leather belt and a simple white scoop neck tee shirt under a jean jacket.

  “So, tell me, where does Colette think you are?” Felicity asked.

  He hesitated because he knew she wouldn’t approve of the truth.

  “Hmm?” she prompted

  “I don’t know why, but I told her I was going to studio,” he said quickly.

  “You didn’t!” She slapped his arm and he pulled away with a laugh. “It’s not funny, is it? Now you’ve gotten me into . . . into something shady.”

  “There’s nothing shady about two friends having a drink.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell her that? You lied and made me a part of it after the fact.”

  “I just wanted to get out and have a good time, Fee. I knew you and I would have fun, and I didn’t want to color it any other way for her. It seemed . . . easier.”

  “Oh, Con.” She searched his eyes for a moment. “There’s all kinds of wrong with what you’re telling me. Do you want to go into it or do you want me to let it go?”

  As an answer, he picked up his pint and held it out in a cheers gesture.

  “And what are we drinking to, then?” she asked, picking up her own pint.

  “To Rogue actually finishing a new album—and one that fucking rocks at that.”

  “Cheers to that,” she said, touching her glass to his before taking a drink.

  ~

  True to his prediction, they had fun with each other. They naturally segued into flirty banter, and as the night wore on and more alcohol was consumed, they got more physically affectionate as well. Playful pats on the arm or leg lingered a bit too long, and anyone watching from a distance would draw the conclusion that they were intimate.

  They stayed at the bar until closing, at which time they were treated to unsolicited, but welcome, coffee and tea cake.

  “Is this going to be enough for you to drive us safely home?” she asked. She was definitely in the happy, fuzzy phase of drunkenness.

  “Why, should we get a room and stay the night?” He put his arm around her shoulders suggestively.

  “Conor Quinn, you think you’re so cute. But you’re not cute. Not at all.”

  He watched her as she pulled away from him and swayed backward precariously. He grabbed her arm to steady her. “Am I not cute?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He smiled at her, enjoying the silliness of this exchange.

  “I said that you think you’re cute and that’s the problem. Just because you’re drop-dead gorgeous doesn’t mean every girl you meet wants to go to bed with you.”

  “If you say so, honey.”

  “I do. Say so. Honey.”

  He stifled a laugh and fed her a bite of tea cake from his fork, then watched as she followed that with the strong black coffee they had been given. It hadn’t done a thing to sober her up yet but he felt fine.

  “A word of advice?” he asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “More a warning, really. Next time you tell me how attractive I am, I might just do something about it.”

  She looked at him for a moment before moving ever so slightly closer to him so that he thought she might be leaning in for a kiss. But then she burst out into riotous laughter, rocking back and forth as she was unable to contain herself.

  “A warning!” she howled, her eyes shining with tears. “Might just do something about it!”

  Conor raised his eyebrows as he watched her, then leaned back in his barstool and smiled in surrender to her amusement. Apparently she was immune to his charms. But damn if she wasn’t cute at the same time.

  ~

  Conor let himself into his house at half past four in the morning and instead of going to bed, went into the living area and slumped down onto the sofa. He thought about the reaction he had had when he woke Felicity upon arriving at her house and in her dream state she’d called him by her ex-husband’s name. It had triggered a kind of jealousy and possessiveness with her that he hadn’t expected.

  But she had quickly shaken off sleep, thanked him for the fun evening, and shown herself inside before he could further explore what was happening.

  “What am I doing?” he said softly.

  Nothing, he told himself. I’m with Colette. I’m making my future with Colette.

  And then he got up, went to the bedroom, undressed, and climbed into bed with his fiancée, which is where he told himself he belonged.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The first single off of the band’s new album was “I Can’t Stay Here.” It was a rousing anthem, just as Gavin had wanted, and it went straight to the top of the charts simultaneously in Ireland, England, and America. Chart success soon followed in two dozen other countries. The hopefulness of the song—as well as the command to let go of what held you back—connected deeply with their loyal audience as well as others who hadn’t counted themselves fans previously. It turned out to be the exact right song to reintroduce Rogue after their lengthy hiatus.

  James kept the boys busy with radio and television chat show appearances, as well as print interviews, and photo and video shoots, to stoke the interest in the upcoming release of the album and the world tour that would follow. He purposely paired Gavin and Conor for most interviews to try to reinforce the bond the two men had only recently reformed.

  During these intense few weeks, Gavin tracked down Sophie’s new phone number through her agent, Henri de Chavannes, who took great delight in berating him for having to resort to such measures. Gavin nervously placed the first call and was disappointed to have to leave a voice message. They played phone tag with increasingly shorter messages to one another. The fact that they couldn’t even manage to have a conversation by phone was an ominous sign to Gavin. Part of him wanted to use these missed connections as an excuse to give up and walk away from their marriage for good. But the feeling deep in his heart that he needed his wife back overwhelmed all doubts.

  It was fortuitous, then, that Conor had opted for a week off the media circuit so he and Colette could take a trip to Greece. Gavin decided this was the time to connect with Sophie.

  Henri reluctantly gave Gavin the details of the job she was doing in Sydney and he immediately booked a flight. He was done with missed calls.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sophie McManus had become known to the world first as the girlfriend, then the wife to Rogue’s charismatic lead singer. Their relationship had played out in the most public way possible, with tabloids and
mainstream press detailing their every up and down.

  After stumbling into modeling and away from her art history studies at university, Sophie had begrudgingly earned the respect of the industry that had been poised to dismiss her as a girl getting preferential treatment because of who her husband was. She had worked hard, taking go-sees (and the rejections) for simple print work seriously. Taking runway work for lesser known designers, she honed her walk, making it distinctive enough that younger models started to copy her. Before long, she was embraced by the higher-end photographers and began to land covers for top fashion magazines. The hot designers fought over booking her into their shows. And she was thereafter known as much for modeling as for being with Gavin.

  Their split had never been formally announced, but the tabloids eventually sussed out their separate living arrangements in two different countries. And then the miscarriage happened. The pregnancy had been a surprise to begin with, coming amidst the demise of her marriage. Turned out it was also ectopic and required emergency surgery. Without Gavin at her side to help her recover and convinced that she had irreparably damaged their marriage with the revelation about Conor, she had wallowed in heartbreak for several weeks.

  Her father had been the one to help her move forward. She stayed with her parents at their beachfront Malibu home during the recovery, both to be cared for and to avoid paparazzi.

  One evening, her father came home from work to find her bundled in a cream cashmere blanket, staring out at the layer of fog hugging the ocean. He had gone to her, wrapped one arm around her shoulders and joined her at looking at the view. Several pelicans circled in the sky before diving into the water for their dinner.

  Finally, he told her softly, “It’s time for you to show yourself what you’re made of. You’re stronger than this.” Then he kissed her on the temple and left her to contemplate that message.

  He had always known when and how to get through to her. For the first time in ages, she focused on thinking about more than her heartache over Gavin and the baby and instead thought about herself. Looking back, she knew she had let her life be dictated by her love for Gavin. She had been lost to him from the moment they met when she lived in Ireland for a year as a sixteen-year-old. The idea to move abroad had been hers, a rash yet grandiose way to escape the mean girls at her school in California. Her parents had been in favor of the experience, thinking it would be a great learning opportunity. What she had learned most was that once she gave her heart to Gavin she would never get it back.

  Several years later, she left USC and moved to another country to be with Gavin once more. Though she had briefly pursued her studies in Dublin, the subtle pressure from Gavin to be with him as Rogue toured was all she needed to convince herself she could take a hiatus. That supposed temporary break had become permanent the moment she was approached by Henri de Chavannes, urging her to take test photographs to explore modeling.

  Modeling had interested her, in part, as an opportunity to explore her own artistic expression. It was also the most visible way to compete with Gavin, whose fame, her mother had warned, could leave her always known merely as somebody’s wife. Her mother had predicted that without something of her own, Sophie would get sucked into Gavin’s world and lose herself in the process.

  So, when the opportunity to pursue modeling came up, she took it. She knew she could have continued her studies and become a university professor but that anonymity wouldn’t have suited Gavin’s lifestyle. This had seemed the best compromise.

  Though she had created something more for herself than her status as Gavin’s wife, her happiness had always been tied to him. That meant she soared and crashed largely based on his temperament. Loving him had been the defining aspect of her life. It was only at the point when he had taken his love away from her that she realized she needed to see who she was without him.

  These thoughts kept her awake through the night of her father’s gentle nudge but by morning she felt rejuvenated, despite the lack of sleep.

  It was with conscious, often painful, effort that she rebuilt a life for herself. She focused first on her physical recovery. Once she had not only regained her stamina but had developed more tone to her figure than she ever had, she renewed her career. She put the Venice Beach home she had taken pride in purchasing on her own on the market and shopped for a place in New York to be closer to the center of work. And she had her agent make sure that Sports Illustrated knew she was available and ready for work on the next swimsuit edition.

  She hadn’t been naive enough to think she had won the cover solely on her own merits, though she knew she had given them the right mix of sultry and strong to warrant the placement. The way they played up the “Survival of the Fittest” angle was a clear nod to her personal history, which always had the effect of driving up sales.

  Along with that cover, she resumed a busy schedule of print and runway work, took the time to be with friends who were her own—not Gavin’s—and eventually accepted that this was her life. Being in New York City full time offered the chance to explore the city and before too long she adopted the assertiveness and confidence the natives exuded.

  This new life was filled with dinners with friends and travel for work and the odd tentative flirtation with men. As much as she enjoyed knowing herself better and knowing she was fine on her own, she couldn’t deny that she still felt a deep longing for the thing she had hungered for since she was sixteen-years-old—Gavin.

  ~

  The photo shoot for Vogue Australia had gone well, and Sophie was eager to get into the vacation of her portion of her trip to Sydney. She had thought this trip to the other side of the world would be a respite from the muggy August New York heat, but was surprised by an unseasonable heat wave. The weather was more California than winter Australia, with temperatures in the upper 70s and low 80s. The dry summer and mild winter combined with this unusual bout of high heat ignited brush fires down south in Brisbane. The stories of firefighters rushing to save homes as the flames spread into populated areas dominated the news.

  And so she felt a little guilty by enjoying the dry heat. It seduced her so well, in fact, that she thought a visit to one of the local renowned beaches for lazy sunbathing might trump more active tourism.

  This was her tentative plan when she woke late on her first day of vacation, something she rarely did. She pulled herself from bed and spent thirty minutes doing the combination of yoga and Pilates movements her trainer had put together for her with the aim of lengthening and toning her muscles.

  It was midday by the time she showered. The hotel concierge suggested she lunch at their fine dining restaurant to enjoy a relaxed meal with unobstructed views of Sydney’s famous harbor. She happily accepted his on-the-spot reservation for her, thinking she could plan out her day while she ate. But once she was seated, she couldn’t help but stare out the window, mesmerized by the sailboats scattered across the blue ocean, the shape of their sails a miniature mirroring of the shells of the Opera House.

  Taking a deep, contented breath, she imagined this would be an incredibly romantic spot at nighttime.

  “Have you decided, miss?”

  Sophie looked up at the young waiter who had already approached her table once before and smiled. He was cute in a cleaned-up surfer way, with sun bleached curls and a square jaw. “No, I’m sorry. I’m a terrible customer, aren’t I?”

  “You’re a beautiful customer, so all is forgiven,” he said.

  His bravado reminded her of what felt like another lifetime, when she and Gavin were first together as teenagers. He had been so confident and romantic. And they had loved each other so well until . . . until, what? She still struggled to understand why he had pushed her away and instead turned to cocaine. And now he was reaching out to her again with phone calls that never quite connected.

  “You’re sweet. Give me just another minute?” she told the waiter.

  “No worries.”

  Sophie looked down at the menu but couldn’t f
ocus. She turned her eyes back to the view through the floor to ceiling windows and thought once more about the tentative way she and Gavin were trying to connect with each other. They were both being overly polite in their attempts, careful not to call at odd hours, when that should be the last thing considered in their efforts. Perhaps they had come to terms that their marriage was over and just weren’t eager to make it official.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Sophie looked up quickly at the sound of Gavin’s voice, certain she had conjured him into being. But no, he really was standing before her now, clad in frayed khakis and a loose white cotton shirt, looking impossibly handsome.

  “Oh my God,” she said softly, unable to hide her surprise. “Hi.”

  “Hi, darlin’,” he replied. “Can I sit with you?”

  Adrenaline coursed through her as she watched him, and all of her senses heightened. She could smell the soap on his skin and see his pulse throbbing at a vein in his neck.

  “Of course. Please.”

  He sat down opposite her and watched her in silence.

  “So . . . what are you doing here?” she asked. After more than nine months? she almost added.

  “I got tired of talking to your voicemail and thought I’d better track you down. I convinced Henri to tell me where you were. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “How did you know I was here, though?” She gestured to the restaurant.

  “When you didn’t answer at your room, I sweet-talked the concierge,” he said with a smile.

  Of course he had. Her husband—could she still call him that?—was nothing if not charming. She examined him for a moment, relieved to see he was fit and healthy. The muscles of his arms were more defined than she had ever seen and his hair was cut short. He was also clean shaven, which she knew he’d done purposefully as he was the kind of guy who shaved a couple times a week at most. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She had dressed casually in a blue and white patterned maxi dress, with no makeup and had knotted her wet hair into a simple bun after showering.